


in the deep watches of the night

by lalaietha



Series: Renegotiations of Fate [8]
Category: Valdemar Series - Mercedes Lackey
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, acute traumatic stress disorder, alternate Magic's Price, trauma recovery as a very difficult process
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-24 00:56:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21329593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalaietha/pseuds/lalaietha
Summary: A moment in the kyree den complex, after Vanyel's captivity with the servants of Master Dark.
Relationships: Vanyel Ashkevron/Tylendel Frelennye
Series: Renegotiations of Fate [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/15084
Kudos: 43





	in the deep watches of the night

**Author's Note:**

> I never figured out the full details of what differs between canon and this 'verse in the build-up, but there's no particular reason why the trap that caught Vanyel should operate much differently, as Leareth could account for Tylendel the same way he accounted for Yfandes, when taken by surprise. 
> 
> The overall sense of the AU is that while precise things have changed, and the details are different, the shape of the 'verse pushes towards similar ends. And in this case there's no particular reason things should be _that_ different from canon - just that I find this dynamic set much more interesting.

The hours after dark provide Tylendel with more time than he's ever wanted to contemplate revenge. It's something he's blocked for near twenty years now: a pathway in his mind violently cut off and shied away from, author of everything he's done wrong and every hemorrhaging wound his mind has suffered, and he never wanted to let it cross his mind again. Even in jest, he doesn't tend to think of it, or mention it, or let it cross his mind. 

And now he has days and nights, and especially nights, to lie here in a solitary bed in a solitary room when the thought is inescapable, looming and present as another body under the sheets. 

Or a corpse. 

And he has come to the bitterly amusing conclusion that he does not want it. Because it will do him no good. 

He remembers Staven and he remembers obsession; he remembers the drive like a fire in his head, and the obscene joy as the wyrsa bit down, before Gala came. He remembers it. He remembers revenge as the only thing in the world that mattered: more than Companion, more than Van, more than being a Herald, more than living. 

And now he has as much cause. More cause. Far, far more cause, and a hate and an anger that could feed him for years even if love weren't enough, and it is. Yet he does not want revenge. He has no use for it. Death for this "Master Dark", yes. Nothing less. But if that son of a bitch could be shot by a Guard-corps archer from a distance, Tylendel would care no more than if he could wring the putrid bastard's neck himself. It doesn't matter. 

Tylendel is used to things in his life being a painful kind of funny. He is not surprised that life has just offered him the ultimate crowning glory of that kind of joke. 

Revenge is just . . . meaningless. It won't undo what had been done. It won't give him his own Van back. 

There are hours, even days, when he wonders if anything will: time, or love, or gutting himself for the gods. Duty or devotion, anything at all. Days when he wonders if it wouldn't just better to give up again and ease them both out of the world, even knowing that at this point he could no more give up than he could fly. And Van sure as hells can't. 

This is one of those days. Nights. 

He realizes he has forgotten to eat, but can't seem to find an appetite. Or interest. He is holding everything at arm's length, he realizes: reducing the world to an intellectual exercise as much as he can. Something of interest. He is very, very tired and ought to sleep, because tomorrow is another day, and Vanyel needs him. 

(This is another bitterness, amusement and satisfaction all in one: they are back to the beginning again, only worse, and he must try that much harder to avoid the past's mistakes - though here, at least, Van is helping.) 

Except as usual, he finds it very difficult to sleep. So he just . . . thinks. More. 

And he is not the arrogant fool he was, the first time he did this dance: he is lost and bereft, mostly, when he is faced with the blankness in Vanyel's eyes, or the careful control of his movements, or, in the end, the fear. This is probably beyond him. Twenty years, and he's a stranger again, or might as well be. The kyree can empathise, but they can't understand: he can't explain in words, can't share in feeling what it is to look at what others have left him of his partner, his beacon, the-one-better-than-he: better mage, better Herald, better man. 

To want to plead _ashke come back to me_, and know that he would only make it worse. That isn't what he should do. That 'Fandes would, in all likelihood, kick him in the head and he'd deserve it, perhaps more than he'd deserved her kick in the head in k'Treva at seventeen. He still wants to. Or he wants the belief that he had when he was stupid and seventeen and thought that just by feeling something for someone else, that would be enough magic: that would fix everything. 

It didn't. And he knows it won't. 

Knowing all of this does nothing for the want, or the ache, or the fear. 

It doesn't change knowing that there isn't any way to win: that if they do manage this, that if they manage to claw their way back to Van's strength, it'll only be to spend it all on this son of a bitch anyway. 

But that to do anything else will leave Van a broken echo of himself. 

No victory. Not in the end. 

Tylendel even knows what the fuck the point is, knows the alternatives are all worse, but that doesn't make any of this any better. 

There are no doors, here, in the kyree dens. So it's the sound of a footfall, light, that makes Tylendel blink and look up, pushing himself up from the bed. 

'Fandes voice comes sharp and hard in his head behind it, catching him hard even as he moves. _:Don't say anything,:_ she warns, tension spooled through her mind-voice like a trip-wire. 

He doesn't even tell her he didn't need the warning, as in the dark Van comes to the bed and, after a moment's hesitation like an agony, slides under the covers, in beside Tylendel. 

It takes a great deal of self-control to keep breathing normally, but Tylendel does. He can hear Vanyel do exactly the same, lying just far enough away not to touch Tylendel at all, curled over on his side, head pillowed on one arm. 

So much, Tylendel is learning, has learned over twenty years and now over these few weeks and days: so much depends on what isn't said, as much as what is. He turns thoughts over in his mind, and knows this: with silence, Van will sleep here tonight, maybe, and come back tomorrow, and things will progress as they ought. And with words, there runs the great risk of sending everything afoul, and undoing all the good that could be done. 

But Tylendel says, "Your feet are cold, peacock," anyway, because he is not a Healer, and this is his lifemate, not his patient. And sometimes it's better to risk things. 

There is silence for a moment, before Van asks, in a wry voice that only sounds a little bit like the panic shook him out and wrung him, before he came here, "How would you know? My feet aren't anywhere near you."

"Your feet are always cold," Tylendel retorts, and slides a little farther down the bed, rolling onto his side so that they faced each other. 'Fandes is probably annoyed with him, but after twenty years, that's familiar, too. She's always annoyed with him, for one reason or another: never hating, never adoring, only annoyed. So this would not make a change. 

There are lines at the sides of Van's eyes, and a new one beginning to score its way between his brows: that one's pain. He is thin, and looks fragile as an ice-sculpture still: almost as frail as Randi, in some ways. Except for the dry, tired look behind his eyes, because Van is amber and not diamond and even when he shatters there is heat. 

He has to pull himself over rock-shards to find any comfort, Tylendel knows. Sometimes Tylendel entertains brief fantasies that they'll survive this, but he's never sure what they'll do: what there is left, for people like them, as broken as the gods have made them. What they can touch, anymore, except kingdom and duty and each other. 

Van closes his eyes, when Tylendel reaches out one hand to brush over the side of Van's face, tracing the lines he'd been watching. It has been . . . he doesn't want to think of how many days it's been now since they touched, after he gathered Van into the hot water long enough for him to come back to himself, enough for Van to pull away completely and ('Fandes in his head with a warning particularly gentle, for her) Tylendel had to let him. 

Revenge is meaningless, but the rage and the hatred is hot enough to warm all of Haven, in Tylendel's soul. 

The jolt of half-despair when, after only a second, Van's hand moves to take hold of his wrist and push his hand away dies when Van doesn't let go of him. His own eyes close, when Van's mind brushes his, seeking the place where they are only one soul - the place he's kept shields on, both ways, until now. 

Counted heartbeats, counted breaths: silence and inaction, as Tylendel just lets him be, lets shields down but does nothing but stay still, body and mind. It's easier if he keeps his eyes closed, when Van lets go of his wrist to reach an arm, not tentative but snowfall-light, to rest his hand on Tylendel's waist. 

His eyes only burn a little. He rests his own hand light on Vanyel's arm, and stays. If he falls asleep this way, if they fall asleep this way, they'll wake with cricks and knots and the ache of tight-wound muscles. But it will be worth it. A thousand times worth it. 

He forgot, of course, to factor in Van's impatience with himself: it's only a few minutes before Van bites out a curse, something long and complicated in Karsite that Tylendel doesn't catch, and twists in and over, pulling Tylendel's arm across his ribs, leaning his back to Tylendel's chest. And stays, for a moment, taut and shaking slightly, minutely, his fingers held rigid to keep from digging into Tylendel's arm. 

Tylendel doesn't let himself feel anything. Uses long practice to push feeling and thought far away. Maybe that's why he hears 'Fandes, or maybe she lets him, when she sighs, _:Why can't you do anything the easy way, Chosen?:_ into Vanyel's mind. 

He doesn't hear Van's reply, if his lifemate makes one. Just pulls his arm gently away, so that he can lay his hand soft on the back of Vanyel's shoulder and kiss the top of his head through his hair. 

"Shhh, ashke," he says, a meaningless noise. "Shhh."


End file.
